On scrutinizing the baroness closely, Monsieur Malberg had thought at first that he had made a mistake; nineteen years had caused so many changes! And all of us have a singular habit: if we are many years without seeing a woman, when we think of that woman, we always imagine her as she was when we saw her last. Instead of saying to ourselves: “Time must have marched with her; her beauty and charm and freshness must have undergone deplorable changes;” we always imagine that she is as we left her, because her image, her figure, her bearing charmed us so, and because the heart and the memory shrink from attributing age to the objects whose souvenir they cherish.
And so, while gazing attentively at Madame de Grangeville, Monsieur Malberg said to himself:
“No, I am mistaken, it isn’t she, it cannot be the woman whose grace, whose fresh complexion and slender figure and light step everyone admired; and yet, those are her features; despite the deep wrinkles at the corners of her mouth, that is the lower part of her face; her eyes are black-ringed and swollen, but the expression is still the same, and it is that expression which has awakened all my memories. Her face is thinner, her hair has changed its color; there are wrinkles on her brow; and yet I cannot doubt it; it is she! yes, surely she! And, in truth, over nineteen years have passed since I saw her; but I had not thought that she could grow old!”
Monsieur Malberg could not remove his eyes from the baroness after that; he abandoned himself the more freely to that mute contemplation, because no one could observe it.
When the first drops of rain set the whole company in motion, Monsieur Malberg did not stir from his place; he still continued his observation, curious to see what the lady upon whom he kept his eyes fixed would do. She had remained as if glued to her chair; she had heard Madame Glumeau urge the guests to follow her, but she had paid no heed; having no fear whatever of the storm which everybody else seemed to dread, she remained in the woods, exposed to the rain; and when the whole company had fled toward the house, she was still there, not daring to turn her head in the direction in which she had seen her husband; for in Monsieur Malberg she had instantly recognized the Comte de Brévanne, whom she had married long before.
The part of the wood in which they were was still lighted by the lamps on the stage and by the lanterns placed at intervals in the enclosure reserved for the audience. But the rain had extinguished some of the lights, the wind swung the lanterns to and fro so that the light that remained was as uncertain as the weather, which, however, had not become so bad as they had feared; the rain, which had fallen at first with considerable violence, had already diminished, and the wind, which had aroused such terror, seemed also to have abated.
“Why does she stay there alone? Why didn’t she follow all those people? What is the reason that she remains exposed to the rain? She is in a ball dress. Can she have seen me? No, I was standing aloof; and if she had seen me, she would not have recognized me; time has passed for both of us alike, and I had to examine her a long time to be certain that it was she.”
Such were the reflections of the man whom we now know to be the Comte de Brévanne, but whom we shall call Malberg more than once, because we have become accustomed to it.
The count, however, was mistaken in thinking that his wife had not recognized him; in the first place, ladies have a glance which carries much farther than ours; and then time, which had wrought such changes in her, seemed to have treated her husband with respect; in fact, as he had very strongly-marked features, and a face which had always been serious, even grave, he had seemed older than he really was when he might still have been ranked with young men; and so time had aged him less, and except for his hair, which had turned gray, and for some few deep wrinkles on his forehead, he had changed very little. So that Madame de Grangeville had recognized her husband in the person whom Madame Glumeau had pointed out as Monsieur Malberg; a single glance had sufficed to make her certain of the truth. Then she had sat a long while without turning her head; she hoped that her husband did not see her, and yet she was burning with the longing to know if he had seen her. As a woman is not in the habit of resisting curiosity, she turned her head once more in the direction where the count was; it was then that their eyes met; in despair because she had shown herself, and having no doubt that her husband had recognized her, Madame de Grangeville wished that she were a hundred leagues away; and yet, when she sat trembling in her chair and the other guests had left the wood, she was so perturbed that she had not strength to walk, and she was utterly at a loss what course to pursue.
Several minutes passed after all the others had gone. Nothing could be heard in the woods except the patter of the raindrops on the leaves. Madame de Grangeville gathered her shawl about her shoulders as if she were cold; she dared not turn her head to see if she were alone, and yet she said to herself: